


In which Dave and Bro go to a motel and things happen.

by seademons



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Underage Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seademons/pseuds/seademons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a seven hour road trip. Eight hours of driving overall.</p><p>You should be exhausted.</p><p>Early that morning, he had kicked your bedroom door open and thrown a bag on your head, from the door still, giving you the only satisfaction of three words, “pack your shit”, before leaving. You can still feel the lump on your head where the bag hit you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

It was a seven hour road trip. Eight hours of driving overall.

You should be exhausted.

Early that morning, he had kicked your bedroom door open and thrown a bag on your head, from the door still, giving you the only satisfaction of three words, “pack your shit”, before leaving. You can still feel the lump on your head where the bag hit you. 

There were no words spoken directly at you throughout the entire trip, nor about you. He was mad for some reason you didn’t have the balls to ask of, mentally fooling yourself saying it’s to keep your cool up. You hope he didn’t notice your itching to ask a thousand questions to get your stupidly huge curiosity killed at once. You hope he didn’t notice how every five minutes you shifted on the seat of his car, slightly to the side, or tapped your fingers soundlessly on your leg (to no rhythm whatsoever since he didn’t turn on the radio not once, and you wouldn’t be the one to dare disturb his thinking-and-driving), or glanced at him from the corner of your eyes, under your shades, without tilting your head to the side so he wouldn’t know (but he always knew), or fidgeted your limbs around more frequently, failing to keep your anxiety hidden for too long. You know he noticed every one of your moves and mental states, you just hope he didn’t give a shit about them and didn’t focus too much, pushing it aside as uninteresting compared to whatever is making him so frustrated. And you still haven’t asked what this is all about.

You placed the bag (it was only one for both of you, therefore you wouldn’t be staying away for too long, you observed) on the floor, beside the bed. The motel room looked better than other ones you’ve stayed before, at situations like this; it actually looked clean. You wonder if this time shit’s about the bills. You’ve taken your shot at bills every time both, you and Bro, ended up in motels for a few days, but never got it right. He only explained a couple of those times to you: one was because this girl he apparently hooked up with some other night (fact that grossed your 10-year-old brain the fuck out, thus you not eating right for the next week or so) put in her head that they totally were in a relationship, and made a complete mess out of it, fucking your brother’s life harder than it should. She was a good stalker. The other time, some guy needed him to deliver something, content in question hidden and never shown to you, only cited. You were eight at the time, and had no idea what drugs were, or existed. Chance lost to have a glimpse of it and conclude the mystery yourself, so now you can only guess and that’s your shot, even if you’ll never know for sure. 

About twenty five minutes ago, Bro had given you the motel card-key saying he needed a beer. He asked if you wanted apple juice or something, and you said yeah, sure. It had been silence ever since, save for the television talking to no listener. It gave you time to snoop around just a little, making mental annotations, such as Bro probably never told the receptionist you are even here, for this is a room for one person. Single bed, one towel, tiny room with enough space for you to pace five steps from one wall to the other, as you wait for him. 

One shallow, translucent idea that you actually got a motel room for yourself washed over you for one second. You know he wouldn’t do that to his 13-year-old brother, once he thinks you’re still a child, even though you have seen pornography a few times, out of curiosity. It’s abnormal, you think, how ladies are so elastic, but you try to not think about it. Rose once told you to never watch birth-giving records, and that is an advice you will never know how grateful you are for until you fuck up and break it. And regret for having done so.

There’s a knock on the door, and you just know it’s him. His knuckles hit the wood of the door forcefully and confident, tired. You open, and he shoves the plastic bag on your chest before walk in, kicking his shoes to the side, first thing. You grab it before it hits the ground and take a glance at its insides whilst closing the door, as he gulps down a few milliliters of his beer, walking to the bathroom. He brought you your favorite sandwich along with your favorite juice carton, and you’re oblivious of the smile your lips just curled into.

You turn to thank him, but he’s already in the bathroom, door closed. The beer and his shirt lie on the bedside table and bed, respectively. You take a place by the shirt and collect your dinner from the plastic bag, discarding it to the side afterwards. 

The ham was especially tasty, and the juice was especially chilly. 

As you finish the carton, Bro walks out of the bathroom. Towel wrapped around his waist, just low enough to see half of his hipbone. Not like you notice. You distractedly continue sucking on the straw even a few moments after there is no juice left anymore, and he just sits by the shirt, pushing it aside with the back of his hand. He sighs and unzips the bag, taking a pair of pants out.  
You stretch and lie down, turn around, facing the wall. The empty carton is still in your hand and its box is suddenly very interesting. Your attention is stolen by the black-in-white text saying the contents you just drunk. There are a lot of synthetic things in it, apparently. You don’t get too surprised and feel Bro lying down beside you, with an arm under his head. You turn around and he’s staring at the ceiling, with the beer over where his uterus would have been had he been born a girl. You place the empty carton on his chest and he takes it, discarding it on the nightstand beside him before taking a sip of the intoxicating drink. You notice he’s not wearing his shades, thus making it easier to know if he’s actually looking straight at the ceiling or shifting his gaze to anything else, which he’s not.

You watch him bring the bottle up to his lips a few times, and he’s still staring at the ceiling, with a hand wrapped loosely around the bottom of the brownish glass on his stomach. You sit down and make an attempt to take the bottle from him, but he tightens the grip around its bottom, glancing at you from below. 

“Don’t you think you’re too young for that?” His voice is low and pretty much demanding you to stop touching the bottle this instant, but it’s not harsh or violent. Smooth, actually. When is anything about him not?

You glance down at him, not letting go of the chill object. “I’ve done worse things.” The two of you share a staring contest, held until he lets go and you drop your gaze down to the beer. You bring the bottle up to your lips and swing it upwards, cold alcohol washing your mouth and burning your pharynx within seconds. Your eyes close shut as you swallow and you “ugh” to yourself, handing the bottle back to your brother. “How the fuck do you drink this shit? Tastes worse than cold piss in melted ice, Bro.” Disgusted face.

He simply shrugs, minimalistic, taking the bottle back from you and finishing off its remaining contents. “You get used to it.” He places the empty bottle on the floor next to his bed and both of his hands rest behind his head. Except now he’s looking at you. Giving you the tiniest of smiles, which is enough to make you boil up on the inside, and you’re smiling back. You’re smiling back more enthusiastically than he is, he’s never enthusiastic, and you just haven’t figured out how to hide this enthusiasm, but it’s not quite within you yet. He usually beats you up for it, but he’s still smiling. You guess it’s the beer. 

“Beer gave you a stroke.” You tease and he raises a brow at you, smiling still. There is barely enough space for you to be sitting there, beside his waist in a single bed, so you twirl ninety degrees to the side, now facing your bro straight forward, without having to turn your head to do so. You swing your legs over his stomach and rest your back on the wall. It’s quite uncomfortable, but you remain in the position either way. 

His hands leave his head and lie on his chest, one of them moving to one of your knees afterwards. You give it a glance and he’s caressing it with his thumb, his hands large enough to cover your knee entirely. You then shift your attention to his face, and he looks like he’s upset. His eyes give it all away without the shades. You want to ask, the question is on the tip of your tongue, but you freeze and choke it back. This is the closest you have been to him in a long time, and you can’t risk ruining it with a stupid question. 

“Aren’t you taking a shower before bed, Dave?” He asks, and suddenly you stop mindlessly staring at his face and actually look at him like someone who’s listening. 

“Uh, yeah.” You reluctantly hop off of the bed and walk to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. As your back leans against the wood of the door and you slide down to the floor, you remember this bathroom has probably had about a gazillion sperm-shots on its walls, floor, ceiling and objects. You’re not sure about the ceiling, but who knows. It might have happened. You nearly jump to your feet and strip.

The water’s cold and the soap makes you feel dirtier and, if you were a girl, probably should take a pregnancy test A-S-A-P. 

Bro’s still lying on his back by the time you get back, but you can’t know if he’s sleeping or awake still, as you just got out from a lightened environment to a dark one, and your irises are having a hard time contracting. You flail your hands around until they find the bag and fetch for a pair of underwear. You fumble the fabric around to know its size and yes, it’s yours, thank j3gus, you take it and put it on. The towel is tossed on the sink and the room is suddenly pitch-dark when you turn off the feeble light the bathroom provided you and your night shenanigans. 

You feel somewhat proud of yourself when you get to the bed without tripping once on the way there. You do lose your balance when climbing on it, your knee, the one Bro caressed, hits the side of the mattress instead and you fall on him, probably awake now, if he already wasn’t. You move to roll off of him, but he brings an arm around you and holds you still, thus making you cancel the previous goal instantly. Your muscles are tensed and you try not to move, but he isn’t moving, either. He’s just lying there, holding you close to his chest, as he breathes steady and calm. 

“There isn’t enough room for two, if you haven’t noticed.” He finally says and your heart skips a beat. It took you by surprise his talking, and try as you might, you can’t bring yourself to relax. 

“Yeah, I, uh, saw. That.” You mentally facepalm and he’s caressing you again. His fingertips ghost over your back, and you’re perhaps tensing up, or melting down. You fail trying to make yourself relax and just focus on his touch instead. His fingertips trace soft, invisible patterns on your back up to your spine and press down, applying little pressure along it, down your back, following its curve. 

You shiver.

His fingers slip under the waistband of your boyish underwear, and your heartbeats are crazy as shit, as if your heart doesn’t know the meaning of pace or rhythm. Ironic how you’re all about both, though.

He withdraws his fingers from the only layer of clothing you’re wearing. You give out a small, almost inaudible gasp, as both of his hands lay on your ass, and they move a little, in circles somewhat, grabbing every now and then, feeling you up good. Your hands grab his shoulders, your eyebrows frowning upward and your mind’s spinning slowly. You hide your face on his neck. He can feel how hot it is, and you can sense his smirk in the air. You’re not sure what you’re supposed to feel, nor do, so you just stay still, biting the inside of your cheek. 

His hands move slower, down to your thighs. They caress the outside, then go for the inside, smoothing both palms on your skin, up and down your thighs, and you bite on your bottom lip. Their maneuvers send a tingling sensation under where they touch, all over your inner thighs, up to your dick and stomach, and you feel weird. There’s a knot on your throat and cold in your vital organs. Your hands shake and you don’t know what to do; you feel like crying, but you won’t. You want to get away, but you don’t. You need to ask, but the amount of questions confuses you.  
Your throat gives out a small crying whine, and you choke it down almost instantly.

He hooks a couple of fingers under the openings of your underwear, where it allows your legs to pass through, and pull them down a considerate length, and your fingers are digging into the skin of his shoulders. One of his hands caresses its way down your ass, following its curve down to your balls, and his fingers caress your balls and you gasp and choke and it feels _amazing_. They move around circularly, pressing down on all the right places and your inner thighs are fluttering and your dick is pulsating and you choke a moan. 

Bro only keeps it up like that for another moment and soon enough, his hands pull your underwear away and smooth back up to your chest. His thumbs flick your nipples and you bite down on his neck.

“Sit down, Dave.” His voice is deep and tender and it startles you. You’re taken by surprise and your body jumps a little, your dick twitches, you blush harder. Your hands work their trembling way around the mattress to make you comply with his order and you sit down on his stomach, notoriously shaking from head to toe. You’re scared and you feel like you can break down any moment.   
He has his hands on your thighs again, caressing them and holding them and you lay your hands on top of his. They’re shaking and try to hold onto his; he ignores. His grip on your thighs tightens and he uses your weight to ease his sitting down. Your noses and foreheads touch, and he’s smiling. Your eyes are half-lidded, his eyes are half-lidded, and you mirror his smile out of habit. His hands move upwards your thighs and you want to _understand_.

Your head aches and your dick hurts and you want to kiss him. Your eyes open entirely and look up into his, as you move your lips closer and he moves his hands around your hips.   
You hopelessly plant a small kiss on the corner of his bottom lip and he’s almost chuckling. His thumb traces a circle around the base of your dick and you bite the inside of your cheek, frowning upward, gazing into his eyes, and he leans onto you. Your cheeks slide against one another’s and your eyes close as he slides his thumb up your length. You moan into his ear, your arms snaking around his neck, bringing him close. His free hand lies on the small of your back, pulling you even closer. 

He runs his thumb around the head of your dick and pulls at the skin enveloping it, giving it all a small squeeze then and a pump. You shiver and gasp and your dick pulsates and it feels weird and tingling. He pumps it with more pressure and quickly picks up a pace and your legs weaken and you moan openly and everything feels amazing for God knows how long and you want to _scream_. You want him to make you scream and you just want more, because it feels _so good_. 

You try to move your hips against his hand but he holds it in place, and you whine looking up at him, trying to get him to _hurry the fuck up_. He’s smiling and his hand pumps more eagerly and you nearly lose balance. Your eyes are closed and he’s moving his hand along your shaft, pumping you skillfully, his hand alone large enough to cover half of your dick, and it’s _so delicious_ you cry out and your legs are going bananas down there and your stomach moves up then down then tense then relax and his hand, oh his hand, it sends waves of _whatever the fuck that awesome shit is_ up your spine and everywhere and he leans his head closer, his mouth against your ear: “ _scream for me, Dave_ ” and you do. You mewl and you cry and you moan and your body is shaking and everything is butterflies and you jerk your head back and everything shuts down.


	2. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shameless stridercest night shenanigans

You’re lying on his chest and he’s panting. Both of you are, except his hand is moving. Fast. You can feel it sometimes, the knuckles sliding up and down your ass as he jerks off underneath you. His dick slapping your ass every now and then, his breathing fast; the only sounds cutting the dense area of the room, set aside your own breathing. His free hand is gripping your thigh, pulling you slightly up to give him space, and you can feel his chest rising rapidly and the blood on his neck pumping hot against your nose. Your eyebrows are frowned upwards, your breathing is altered still, your free leg flexes on the knee and moves up and you’re turned on. You move to the side, off of his chest, but right beside him, chest to arm. Your leg slides across his stomach, your foot barely touching the base of this dick. 

He slows down his pace _just a little_ and you can feel his eyes on you as you move a hand closer to his. Ignoring him letting go of your thigh and wrapping an arm around your waist, you reach for his dick, but he doesn’t slow down enough so you can actually succeed. Your fingertips scarcely brush the head, but you can’t take actual hold of it, in the pace he's keeping up. 

“I hope you have the skills to take over, if you continue with that train of thought.” His words freeze you like a piece of hot, hot, _hot_ metal thrown in Antarctica, and you’re unable to move. You’re not sure if you even had a formed train of thought per se, but you were going to achieve something, even if unknown. You wanted to actually _do something_ , and you want to touch him, and you want to make him feel as good as you did, but it seems a little out of hand in your position. So you let your hand drop to his stomach and trace little, blind patterns on his skin with the tip of your fingers. 

He’s annoyed. He’s making that sound he makes every time he’s uneasy with something and irritated and his hand slows considerably down and that’s never good. You wonder, for a brief moment, if he’s disappointed or angry or _whatever_ concerning you, but soon he’s on top of you with his lips against your ear and a hand on your hip. Your eyes close instantly as he breathes on your skin and massages your stomach and _his dick is against your leg_ and yours is against his stomach and your breathing is even further away from its normalcy. 

“Tell me what you want me to do to you, Dave.” His voice is harsh and his hand is lowering to your thighs; your heart is pumping blood all over the place and he’s licking your face and he’s smiling-- _smirking_ and the hand you had on his stomach is itching to reach lower and you just want him to touch you that way again. You want to say it, you want to _beg_ for it, but you don’t. You would never, and you have a better match. 

“Kiss me.” 

Your lips tremble and your words come out a little shaky and faint, but you’re sure he doesn’t take it for granted; his breathing ceases for a second and your heart skips a beat at it, going on a short trip and coming back with blood souvenir from fucking Alaska. 

He doesn’t move, you don’t move.

An awkward silence fills the room until he cocks his head to the side, away from your ear and to your face. His eyes fix on yours, and your cheeks could be mistaken for gigantic round peppermints as you stare back. His eyes scan your face down before fixing on your lips. You had absentmindedly pressed them together on a thin line, like you do every time under stress or _whatever_ you’re feeling, back at some point on the stare down, and he brings a hand up, a thumb to carefully pull on your bottom lip until it’s full and back to its right place. 

Your breathing itches and your eyes follow his until your lips touch; they then roll to the back of your head and close and you can only breathe in. His skin is soft and barely even touching yours but it’s warm and _you can feel it_ and you slide your lips against his, but he withdraws. Your eyes open a little as you take a look at him, but he’s too close. You bring a hand to his neck and pull him down a little, so you’re kissing again. He actually, deliberately adds pressure then, his lips on yours, and you push back and both of you slide your lips around each other’s and your stomach is filled with this aired tingling sensation which goes up to your throat and your hand grips on his hair and his grip on the side of your face and his lips are all over yours and he presses his waist down on you and you moan muffled by your own mouth and there are no tongues and just a mess of lips everywhere and you’re breathing heavily and _he_ ’s breathing heavily and he bites down on your bottom lip and you mewl. 

His eyes flick quickly, suddenly up to yours and yours are _huge_. You look startled, red, pink, eyes the size of Texas and you’re panting harder than you should. His eyes fix on yours as he leans over and presses both of your foreheads together, rolling his hips against yours, his erection sliding against yours, your legs spreading apart unwillingly. Your eyes roll back, your head tilts back a little and your mouth lets ignominious moans squeeze past, but they’re low, needy and shy. 

He sees through you like thin air and grins as he rocks against you, a hand smoothing its way down to grab both of your erections and press together and slide up and down, not letting go, sending waves of amazing shit up your spine, your hands gripping the sheets, the moans getting louder. Compared to the speed he pulled on himself alone, he was _slow_. But it was perfect for you to process what goes on while _knowing_ what goes on while computing _where_ you’re getting the pleasure from and _why_. Your moans become louder than you would allow and you bite your bottom lip, muffling most of them as he pumps both of you faster, faster---your precum is sliding down his hand and he abruptly stops.

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god i wrote this a long time ago i'm sorry


End file.
